


another tide

by lost_decade



Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: Angst, Hand Jobs, Le Mans 2019, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 11:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19463026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_decade/pseuds/lost_decade
Summary: Fuck you, he wants to say.I’d do anything to.





	another tide

**Author's Note:**

> Post (actually mid)-Le Mans angst. 
> 
> Title from A Ruin by Kauf.

André doesn’t bother to say _it isn’t over._ They both know, realistically, that it is, the twenty minutes in the garage too costly to come back from, barring something catastrophic. He’d watched the 26 drop down the timings through the dimly lit screen of his phone, blue light filtered out to necessitate the idea he might actually switch it off and sleep a bit.

Sleep is always more of a long shot than he ever intends it to be at Le Mans and instead he’d found himself staring blankly at the grey metal of Neel’s bunk above his own, aching muscles refusing to relax as the question he keeps coming back to reared it’s ugly head again. _How many more times. Next year? Again and again._ He’d been unable to meet Hurley’s eyes for more than a flickering second in the hospitality suite that morning. More than anything else this is what spurred him out of bed and into the emerging morning, directionless but not wanting to keep still, longing for his next stint to come sooner.

Three laps down now and it probably is over.

He doesn’t say that either, when he spots Jean-Éric leaning back against the side of the motorhome, eyes closed and cigarette raised to his lips. André tells himself he wasn’t looking for Jev, brushes away the lie like dust across the track. He watches for a moment, unseen, taking in the curve of his body where he leans, one foot pressed up against the side panelling as he exhales smoke into the air. It seems quiet, even with the noise of the racetrack going on all around them, this particular area surprisingly devoid of people.

"I'm sorry, man," André says when Jev lowers his gaze. He takes a step closer, noting the slump of Jev's shoulders, the familiar coursing adrenaline that won't be poured into a category win, now. He's been crying but there's a steely defiance there and André knows he probably has had to pep up his young teammate, be a rock for the boy who gets tongue-tied around his idol. _Crush_ , possibly?

His mind revisits last year and Jev inconsolable in his arms, in his bed, thinks of holding and rocking him, making him moan and gasp and forget.  
André crosses his arms in front of his chest as if that might stop them betraying him and seeking Jev out in a similar way this year.

They share another cigarette, shoulder to shoulder as the sun breaks through the clouds, André longing for some hours back and the magic of those special middle of the night laps.  
Jev drops his hand down to his side, letting his knuckles brush against André's lightly, nothing really. André probably ought to be angry with him for so many reasons but he can’t summon it up even when Jean-Éric slips his fingers between his own and squeezes, catching his eye with that lost expression which always pulls apart André's self-control.

Fuck you, he wants to say.

_I’d do anything to._

He sighs and moves easily when Jev uses their joined hands to twirl him around to face him, their bodies close pressed up against the motorhome in full view of anyone who might walk by. Jev is an exhibitionist like that sometimes but André, André finds himself wanting to be seen, tired of the old jibes. _If it isn’t the gaijin gay club_ – Tom’s worn greeting for him and Löic, a barbed joke he never let himself flinch at, even as the implication between the two of them felt ridiculous.

He looks at Jev, but Jev is gazing over his shoulder into the distance, lost in thought. André untangles their fingers and rests both hands on Jev's hips, pressing up against him. His race-suit is peeled half off, the arms hanging loose at his sides, fireproofs showing off the sculpted lines of his body, more definition in the muscle than when André first met him.

Mykonos, he remembers suddenly. Jev pressed against him in one of the narrow winding alleys just back from the harbour, some 80s gay dance anthem thumping out from one of the clubs and Jean-Éric's skin salty with the spray from the ocean. _I need this, please André, I need you._

_Only you._

_Only you_ , whispered low in his ear on all those nights that week, the words in so many variations that André has lost count. He'd basked in the intensity of Jev's affection, let himself be pulled along with it, drowned himself in it like the richness of the honey Jev had poured in circles over the thick Greek yogurt that first morning after.  
He thinks of what Neel had said earlier in the week, the offer on the table that he's been 'considering' for too long now, how it would wound Jean-Éric's heart.

Now isn't the time for that kind of decision.

He runs his thumb along the waistband of Jev’s fireproof underwear, dipping under to touch heated skin, soft hair, waiting for the moment when Jev melts against him. It comes when he kisses his neck, biting at his jaw and licking at the sweat-damp skin below his ear. Jean-Éric relaxes, slipping an arm around him, murmuring his name as André’s hand slides lower with soft words of encouragement.

“Yeah, like that,” he whispers as Jev ruts against him, burying his face against André’s neck to hide his whimpers. To a casual observer it would probably look nothing more than a tight hug, the kind of affection they’re getting a reputation for, if not for the motion of Jev grinding against him. André holds him tight with his free arm, breathes in the scent of his skin and his hair, curses himself for this. He wonders briefly if Jev is needy enough right now to let him fuck him, but the thought passes – they both have other places to be.

He realises he doesn’t even actually know what time it is.

Too soon, Jev shudders against him, biting down on his shoulder as André's hand is coated with warm wetness. He frees his hand and takes a step back, Jean-Éric looking at him now. Some of the tension has drained from his face, his eyes red-rimmed but soft. He murmurs his thanks as his spunk dries on André’s fingers in the warm breath of the mistral that swirls in the gully between the motorhomes.

“No problem.” A shrug and a smile, nonchalance an art after – is he really nearly thirty-eight – so many years.

He doesn’t flinch when Jev dodges his attempt at a kiss on the mouth, just smiles and claps him on the back instead, watches him go.

**Author's Note:**

> Hurley Haywood was the grand marshal at Le Mans this year and my brain likes making connections. 
> 
> Also I know this is not entirely time accurate but the fic was half written by the time I figured out who was in the car when, because my plan to stay awake kinda didn't happen.


End file.
